And at the same time he recalled another image of her as the mistress who knew so well how to keep him spellbound by her artifices in the old palace of Naples, making that voluptuous prison her best souvenir.
"Let's think no more about her," he said to himself energetically.

"She has died....

She does not exist." But not even after her death did she leave him in peace.

Remembrance of her soon came surging back, binding her to him with a tragic interest.
The very evening that he was talking with his friend in the cafe of the _Cannebiere_, he went to the post office to get the mail which had been forwarded to him at Marseilles.

They gave him a great package of letters and newspapers.